Today I want to curl up inside
one of these Cornell boxes
to be the thing with feathers
or the facsimile of something other
that at least
even in paper, decoupage
could conjure the tickle, the soft chill
down your spine,
as you imagine
each twig carried swiftly,
each bit of thread
each patch of fur
held lightly in a hard beak
that could break open
the beetle’s shell
or the banded case of an acorn
that could snap the neck
of a tiny mouse,
or crack the shell of another’s egg
but doesn’t, and instead,
tucks itself into your hand,
tiny beak tucked under wing.